


Lighten the Way

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amlach arrives in Himring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighten the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BloodEarthAndInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodEarthAndInk/gifts).



> Many thanks to amyfortuna for betaing this!

On windy days, it was almost impossible to stand on the topmost ramparts of the main fortress in Himring. The thick walls were built on a precipitous drop which commanded an unobstructed view of the plain in front of Angband, a wind-swept sea of light green waves that abruptly gave way to soot-speckled, barren stillness.

Amlach stood a few paces from the Lord of the fortress, attempting to find protection from the intermittent gusts behind the swallowtail-shaped battlements. He was tired from the journey – the trudging, seemingly endless climb on footpaths that were more suited to goats than two-legged creatures.

They had been welcomed by wary sentinels not warmly, but courteously enough. His followers were being offered food and water in the courtyard of the keep. He had been led up flights of stairs that seemed to never end, going up and up as if to the very heavens, like a vertical maze. Once they emerged on the battlements, he had been summarily introduced as a human chieftain seeking an allegiance, and left to plead his case with Maedhros. 

Maedhros's only greeting had been a curt mumble that was all but drowned in the roar of the wind. He didn't look at Amlach while Amlach spoke, ostensibly immersed in whatever thoughts or concerns had drawn him up there to be lashed at by the furious gales. 

Amlach couldn't even be sure whether he was being listened to at all or not, and was therefore surprised when Maedhros addressed him as soon as he stopped talking. 

“Why not join your uncle's people in the west? You could enter the High King's service, draw more prestige from it than you will here.” 

The elf spoke briskly, with marked impatience, and what he said didn't put Amlach at ease at all. 

“I am not after prestige,” he said. “My...grudge against the Dark King is personal...as personal as is yours.”

His tongue stumbled on the unfamiliar sounds of Sindarin. He had only learnt enough of the language not to be confused if one the Elves, riding through Estolad to see mortals like some sort of bizarre curiosity, addressed him (he had been told there were many fewer Elves passing through than when his grandfather first settled there). His tiredness as well as the elf's rapid speech made it even more difficult for him to grapple with a variant of the language which was remarkably different from the one he was used to. 

He had not been prepared for Maedhros's reticence, either. He had expected the elf to accept his offer promptly, even gladly. He clenched his jaw and contemplated Maedhros as the elf kept gazing, dourly, over Ard-Galen and the sinister mass of the Ered Engrin and Angband looming in the distance (it was only a hazy black shape to him, but he had been told Elves could see much further, and more clearly, than Men).

“Your grudge is but a trifle next to mine,” Maedhros spat, trenchant, after a long pause.

“It's –”

“What has he taken from you?”

“My dignity, my credibility, my –”

Amlach's speech came to a premature halt when Maedhros abruptly spun around to face him with a loud clank of metal which almost made Amlach flinch. The elf looked him over from head to toe, the scathing inflection of his tone a mere fraction of the fervour in his eyes.

“If you think he has taken your dignity by stealing your appearance, what do you think of me? How do you think I should regard myself?” he asked, lifting his maimed arm to point at his own face.

It was a beautiful, perfectly proportioned face. The numerous – and diverse – scars marking it, brutal testimony of the Dark King's work, almost went unnoticed at first. 

At second glance, they seemed to swallow up the beholder in all their stark grimness. 

“That...that is between you and yourself,” Amlach said, but his voice floundered and he had to clear his throat, while his gaze shifted nervously to the amputation. “But I do not believe you need...commiseration.”

“I don't? What makes you say that?”

Amlach hesitated. If he hadn't been using his hands to hold his mantle closed he would have rubbed his neck. Now he could only tap his feet on the ground to dispel his tension, even though the slightest movement reminded him of his exhaustion. His father had often warned him – that he was too impulsive, and would do better to think twice before talking – and here he was, speaking to a centuries-old elf lord as if he could judge his life. He had just met Maedhros. All he knew about him was hearsay, and he was perfectly – and gratefully – aware that he couldn't even begin to imagine the sort of agony that underlay his scars. But it was hard not to get the impression of an adamantine spirit from the elf's very appearance. 

Maedhros had very short hair. His scars were on display for everybody to see. His left ear had been nicked and cut several times, and now lacked both tip and lobe. What had to be a burn mark – a dark patch of wrinkled and darkened skin – ran from his nape to the middle of his neck. A deep scar cut across his right cheek, and split his upper lip in two. Those were only the most prominent markings. A lesser man would not have been able to bear their burden, much less do it with the same ease he did. He appeared to carelessly flaunt them in the same way others would have worn their finest jewelry. 

“You still fight,” Amlach said at last, unable to turn his impression into a more eloquent reply. “I want to do the same.” To give more weight to his words, he steadied himself and stepped closer to the elf, only to be nearly knocked off his feet by a sudden gust. 

Maedhros caught him with his only hand, revealing heavy gauntlets as his mantle parted, and held him until the wind died down again. His grip was like iron, and the metal dug into Amlach's sides, but what unsettled Amlach was a weird tickling in the back of his head, as if a second, invisible hand had wrapped around his nape. Perhaps it had to do with Maedhros's gaze. He was glad he had talked to Maedhros's brothers before heading to Himring. At least he didn't feel that sort of trepidation very similar to fear that had seized him the first few times he had seen the twins up close. 

The wind picked up again and he hid behind the next battlement, even if it forced him to stand right next to Maedhros.

“I suppose you know my reputation, and my family's.”

“I talked to your brothers...the twins. I know that you have killed more orcs than anybody else.”

Maedhros smiled faintly at that – in pride, or maybe it was the mention of his brothers – and his eyes lit up like a sky rent by thunderbolts. “If Morgoth's might had depended on orcs alone, the war would have been won long ago,” he said. “So that is why you have come here? My brothers encouraged you to?”

Amlach mumbled a 'yes'.

“And thus you are determined to fight him now, out of...self-commiseration, whereas you were ready to flee these regions before.”

“Not out of cowardice. I was simply worried, for my people, and their well-being.”

“You forsake them by coming here,” Maedhros pressed.

Amlach didn't need to be reminded of that. Many of them had chosen to leave all the same, even without him. Two first cousins on his mother's side too. His own mother had chosen to go with them, admonishing him that his venture would be a futile one. 

“I cannot sit still knowing that accursed abomination is out there trying to twist everything and everybody to his will. I want to fight, for myself, for my revenge. I could fight as well at your side as at anybody else's, but I have chosen you, and I believe my choice was apt. I will be a faithful ally to you, you would not regret it. If there's a –” 

He spoke so vehemently that he didn't realise he had switched to his own tongue until Maedhros raised his hand to hush him with a puzzled expression.

“Your effort...your commitment won't necessarily be repaid.”

“I know.”

Maedhros held his gaze for a while longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Very well. Where military matters are concerned, my orders are final. You may settle wherever you want and govern yourselves however you want. Also leave at any time, I have no need for discontent allies. Not that you have such a large following.” Amlach clenched his fists in protest. “I'm sure they're all fierce warriors.” Maedhros fell silent and once again raked his eyes over his body in a way that made him feel like he was being touched. “I will have you outfitted with better armour and weapons. I won't accept any protests as far as that is concerned, I don't want to lose men due to poor equipment.”

Amlach nodded stiffly, then remembered his position, stood straight and made a slight bow, as he would done with a superior among his people.

“I will instruct my second-in-command to get you acquainted with the fortress and with my officers, I have a delegation to meet.” 

With that, Maedhros whirled around, heading towards the stairs, but stopped after a few strides. “On second thought, come with me. You can get acquainted with life here just as well, and we might get to know each other, too,” Maedhros said, stretching his hand towards him.

Amlach wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, and just stared. 

“Unless you are too tired?” Maedhros added, still holding his hand out towards him.

Amlach hesitantly came forward and covered it with his own. Maedhros's hand was large, coarse but uncannily warm, and touch brought with it a sense of comfort.

“I...am quite tired, indeed, but I will be honoured to be at your side." 

“I like your frankness,” Maedhros said and smiled – a true smile that spread to his eyes. “...if you don't mind, could I use your tiredness as an excuse to have the encounter be as brief as possible?"

"Of course not...my Lord."


End file.
